This Kiss
by EmaniaHilel
Summary: Challenge Fic. Submissions for livejournal's 30Kisses challenge community. GeorgeMason pairing. Theme 6: the space between dream and reality.
1. Look Over Here

**A/N:** So here's another DLM fic. This is my first entry for the livejournal challenge community, **_30Kisses_**. The series of 30 kisses is going to be called "This Kiss".

**Disclaimer:** I disclaim all ownership to the characters of George Lass or Mason from this series. I recognize they belong to MGM/Showtime or whoever else owns the rights now. I also inform any interested party that I made no money in the creation or posting of this story.

_**This Kiss  
**__**01: Look Over Here  
**__**More Than Most  
**__**by Em**_

"_Your most innocent kiss / Or your sweetest caress / Seduces me"  
_- Celine Dion, "Seduces Me"

Frustrated, George lowered her pen and glared at Mason, "You're staring at me," she declared pointedly.

He smiled in that in that annoyingly calm way he had, "I am _wondrously_ aware of that," he said.

His ready admission threw her and she frowned, "Well..._why_ are you staring at me?" she asked in what she thought was a very reasonable voice.

He leaned his chin on his hand, "Why, because you are a very pleasurable thing to look at, of course."

George flushed and her frown deepened. She thought of several things to say, but none of them made it out of her lips. Finally, she decided on a snort of disgust and went back to her book with a somewhat less than normal audible, "Whatever."

Of course, he continued to stare at her and she continued to pretend to read. And even though she thought to occasionally turn a page, she hadn't retained a single word of her reading. "Stop it."

"Why?"

"Because it's disconcerting and I'm trying to study."

"Why would it be disconcerting?" he asked sensibly.

"Because you're...I'm..." and there her reasoning faltered. She didn't quite know _why_ it was disconcerting. It just was. "It just is," she decided. When his lips curled into a grin, she narrowed her eyes at him, "Do I have to write a fucking dissertation on it or can't I just ask you to stop doing something that's bothering me?" she asked defensively.

"But I don't want to stop staring at you," he said simply.

"You don't..." she trailed off and shook her head. George was so angry she was about ready to burst and she wasn't quite sure why either which only made her angrier, "I don't want to write a paper on the significance of the thousand and one different ways people die in _The Iliad_ on Greek society either, but I have to," she said in frustration. When he looked as if he were waiting for the rest of her reasoning, she exhaled, "And your staring at me is making an already difficult thing all the more difficult, so quit it!"

"But I'm bored and staring at your beautiful features while they're twisted in scholarly endeavors is the most entertaining thing I've found in hours," he said, his British lilt coming out in a bit of a whine.

She glared at him meaningfully, "Are you drunk?" she asked.

He blinked in confusion, "No more than usual," he answered as if it should've been obvious.

She groaned and lowered her head onto the table with a muffled thump. Mercifully, the thick book and notebooks kept her head from hitting the varnished wood of the dining table where she had taken to studying, but she was sure once she lifted her head she would probably have blue ink all over her forehead anyway. Why had she ever thought it might be a good idea to go back to school, she wondered?

"Doesn't that hurt?" he asked sympathetically.

She thought of several choice things she could respond to that, too, but she was completely aware she was being snappish without cause. He really _hadn't_ done anything to her. So why was she so fucking peeved? She'd say she was about to have her period, except she was undead and didn't have her period anymore.

"If you're so bored, why don't you go out and knock over a bank or something?" she asked, her voice muffled.

"It's really very saddening to me that you think so little of me as to even suggest that."

George snorted her belief in the sincerity of that statement. "Fine, a convenience store, then."

"That wounds me, Georgie...it really does."

"Whatever," she mumbled.

"What was that?" he asked and out of the corner of her eye and through her hair she could see him trying to get a glimpse of her face. "I can't hear you unless you speak up and you should really look at me when you talk to someone, you know."

She raised her head off the table and pushed her hair back away from her face with an annoyed swipe of her hand, only to glare at him, "Why don't you go flirt with Daisy and leave me alone to study?" she asked, making certain to enunciate each word so that there was no chance of his saying he hadn't understood her. For the first time, she was glad of Daisy's impromptu diction lessons.

Instead of looking peevish or even actually leaving, as George thought he might, he actually grinned. "Because I'd rather flirt with you."

George narrowed her eyes at him, "I hate to break it to you Mason, but flirting and annoying are NOT the same thing."

His grin only grew, "Where you're concerned they are."

Sometimes it was easy to forget how intelligent Mason actually was. He played the fool so often, it also seemed to catch her by surprise whenever he said something deep or perceptive. She eventually hid her surprise with a glare, but she knew he had seen it. Seeing him this way was rather creepy. "You're really starting to weird me out, Mason," she admitted.

He continued to smile, but somehow, it _changed_. She couldn't pinpoint how, but it wasn't the same cocky Mason-Smile or the Shit-Faced Mason-Smile or even the Full Out Mason-Leer. "And that's progress, too," he said simply.

"Progress?" she asked, confused and obviously unhappy about it, "Progress toward what?"

Mason thought about his wording very carefully, "Toward the time when you'll really see me," he said.

She blinked in utter confusion at him, trying to process what he said and what he could've meant by that. "No, really, are you on crack?" she finally asked. And then he was looking at her in that way he had as if she was a puppy that had just done something utterly, undeniably cute. She, of course, interpreted the look to mean he thought she was naïve or something. "I _see_ you," she pointed out. "I have fucking eyes, don't I?" She showed her confusion by the waving of her hands, "I've always seen you."

He nodded, "More than most," he conceded, "But not really," he said casually standing and placing a soft peck on her forehead, "Still, I'm working on that," he finished cryptically before walking out of the dining room.

_xxxxxxxxxxx_

**A/N:** So I guess it's pretty obvious this would take place sometime post the end of Season 2. Our Georgie-girl is back in school. ((shrug)) Don't ask me why. Or what she's studying for that matter.

If I'm going to make these themes relate to any other theme I'll be sure and tell you that it relates and to which one specifically, otherwise, don't expect it.


	2. news letter

**A/N:** I don't know that I'm still eligible to officially post to the 30Kisses for this couple since it's been over a month since I updated, but oh well. I thought I didn't like this one, and then I re-read it and I didn't hate it and I thought it was probably the best I was going to get done, so I finished it and here you are.

**Disclaimer**: I disclaim all ownership to the characters of George Lass or Mason from this series. I recognize they belong to MGM/Showtime or whoever else owns the rights now. I also inform any interested party that I made no money in the creation or posting of this story.

_**This Kiss  
**__**02: news; letter  
**__**Implications and Connotations  
**__**by Em**_

"_So kiss me and smile for me / Tell me that you'll wait for me / Hold me like you'll never let me go..."  
_- Leaving On A Jet Plane, Chantal Kreviazuk

She found it lying innocuously against the gray marble of the headstone, the white paper strangely blending so that she might not have even noticed it was there if she wouldn't have been in such a strange mood in the first place.

Granted, if she wouldn't have been in such a strange mood in the first place, she mightn't have come to such a god-forsaken place at all.

How did he do that, she wondered? How did he know she'd be there? How could he know that it wouldn't rain and ruin the paper beyond recognition. He just left it there, after all. Any number of things could have happened. Why didn't he leave it at her doorstep? Hell, he could've even left it on her bed if he so chose. It wasn't like he couldn't pick a lock, even if her bedroom had the kind of lock she could turn from the outside.

That was just the way he was, she knew. He was the kind of person that didn't care what the result of something might be, so long as he experienced the doing of it.

He never knew what meeting someone like that had done to her warped view of the world.

It had tilted it right on its fucking axis is what it had done, but he never knew that.

She never once wondered who it might be from at all, even before she saw the deep masculine scrawl . Yet another strange thing she chalked up to her strange mood.

Once she was close enough to read the script across the front of the envelope, she fell unceremoniously onto her ass and curled her legs under her only as an afterthought.

She remembered asking Rube after Betty left why the people she cared about always had to leave. She remembered Rube telling her, in his own way, that memories was all any of them ever had.

_Hullo, Georgie..._

_I don't know why I wrote this. No, that's not true. I do know why I wrote this. I wrote this because one thing has been repeating itself in my head since the moment I left your office this afternoon. The look on your face. You didn't get one whit of what I was talking about, did you? Truth is, I'm not sure that I got any of it either, but I remember what it was like for you when Betty left. I remember how scared you looked and how lonely and how you looked as if someone had kicked your cat. I don't want you to feel that way after I leave. I didn't want you to question anything about me so I thought it would be a good idea to write you this letter in the hopes that you won't feel so confused about my words (or my kiss) this afternoon. So you won't feel so confused by me anymore. _

_I don't think it'll work, really, cause let's be bloody honest here: how the hell am I supposed to explain to you something I don't have straight in the first place, eh? But, in any case, here's to trying. _

_You do such a good job of pretending that you don't care about anyone or anything that I think sometimes you actually believe it. Maybe for a little bit, but I don't. I never did. No one, and trust me on this – I've had experience with it – no one who has such bloody trouble popping a fucking soul of someone whose already dead in all senses of the word, is as uncaring or "whatever" as you like to pretend to be. _

_That's something we all knew about you right from the get go, Georgie-girl. Me, Betty, Rube, even Roxie. We all knew it. And if Rube put up with your shit for such a long time, it was because he knew it most of all. Because he knew that the moment you didn't fight him, even a little bit, the moment you stopped feeling bad about taking someone's soul, then you'd really stop caring about the world. And none of us, especially Rube, ever wanted to see you lose that. _

_I know you're probably wondering how the hell you're supposed to do the job if you don't stop caring and that's not what I'm saying you should do at all. It's not about stopping caring for the poor fucks who are going to die. I think, on some level, we all care about 'em. No, I think it's about realizing that they really are going to a better place than us. They're the ones who should feel sorry for us, and that's the truth. I mean, we can't go where their going...ever. Well, probably ever. Who knows where we go after our last reap? Rube sure as fuck isn't telling us. But what I mean to say is that yeah, it's sad that their life here on earth is ending, no matter how fucked up the life they had, if you asked them the split second before they have their accident whether or not they'd want to die, they'd sure as shit tell you they don't care what you say is on 'the other side', they don't want to go. But that's fear more than anything else. The idea that ANYTHING horrible that you know is ten times better than something you don't know about at all. _

_After sixty-odd years of doing this shit, you think I'd know that. _

_You've seen the looks on the faces of the people when they see their lights, right? I mean, that's bloody brilliant, is what it is. And knowing that whatever they see, it makes them look like that, well, that's gotta take the fear away from the what if, doesn't it?_

_And still..._

_If this is my last day on earth, I still find myself having that fear. After I did everything I set out to do (which you'll probably find out what all the 'everything' is later, no need to rehash here) and after I spoke to Daisy, I realized something:_

_I still don't want to go. I still have that fear. _

_But after everything I did today, I got to wondering why that might be. I _know_ the lights are wonderful. I know that whatever comes can't be worse than this..._

_And that's when I realized something..._

_This, whatever else it is, isn't half bad._

_And I think I have you to thank for that, Georgie._

_No. I know I have you to thank for that. Before you came..._

_Oh, I don't know what all, but it was different. They were all different. Betty was always Betty, really, but Rube and Roxie they were...different. And even still, I'd never seen Betty befriend anyone the way she befriended you. _

_I'm no fucking Hemingway and I can't explain myself right, but that's the long and the short of it all. They were different after you came. And I can't think but that you're the catalyst (surprised I know that word, are you?) _

_A lot of shit's happened, and I sort of hate myself for saying this, (because I know how much you hate this kind of life) but I'm glad you got hit by the Toilet Seat. I'm glad you were Duane's(1) last reap. I'm glad I got to meet you and I'm glad we had you for these almost two years instead of your family._

_Forgive me for saying so, Georgie, but your family didn't know what the fuck they had while they had you, and we (well, at least, I) do. _

_Bollucks. None of this letter's made one lick of sense, has it? I'm sorry. I just wanted you to understand..._

_But then...I don't know what I want you to understand, do I?_

_No. Just what I said to you at your office today._

_All of it._

_Goodbye, Georgia._

_I don't know anything about where I'll go, but I do know one thing:_

_They'll be no one like you there._

_Love,_

_Nathaniel Robert Mason_(2)

Georgia looked up from the pages in her hands and found the lines on the tombstone. She knew if she traced the grooves of those lines they would form words and the words would form a name: her name. She knew that, but she wasn't looking at it for her name. She was looking at it as if somewhere in the bits that made up the stone she could find the meaning behind his words. She looked at her tombstone as if it were the fucking Rosetta Stone and Mason's letter was written in ancient Egyptian.

He was right, she realized. She didn't understand half of what he was trying to say, but the fact remained that she knew he was trying to say something. He was trying to reach out to her and let her in on something else he couldn't vocalize or didn't know how to try, before he left. She wasn't sure that she was the only one who realized that Mason was always trying to say something, trying to be understood, and maybe that something was deep and meaningful and maybe it was verbal equivalent of crack, but it didn't matter because the true tragedy of Mason was that he never – _never_ – knew how to express himself and make himself understood.

She did get a few things from his letter, however. A few things he hadn't planned on imparting, maybe.

One, Mason didn't want her to be confused or worried about where he might be going after his last reap. He didn't want her to worry about him and he didn't want her to suffer in confusion over the loss of him the way she had after Betty left. She got that clear as day.

She was warmed by the thought and his attempt at comfort.

She was also surprised at how completely he _got_ her. How he knew she would go to her grave, how he knew she would worry about what he'd feel in having to leave, how he'd know she wouldn't have really understood what he meant to tell her when he visited her to say goodbye that afternoon. How he even knew what to say to make her feel better.

She probably shouldn't have been so surprised. He'd been the one to always know what to say to her anyway. From the first moments when they were sitting on top of that stupid domed building and he told her about his first time learning about death and how shocked he'd been. He'd understood then, the way none of the others had even begun to fathom, that she needed to know she wasn't alone in thinking that everything she was going through was fucked up and beyond cracked. Almost instinctively, he'd known how to soothe her.

Granted, he didn't go about it in the best way possible, but after a while she'd started to figure out how he meant things when he didn't exactly say what he meant.

But what really blew her mind with its implications and connotations was the fact that the letter had still been there even after he realized it wasn't his _last call_ at all. He had seen her that day after realizing a purple post-it meant nothing more than that Rube had run out of yellow and hadn't said a word. It set her mind to reeling that what he wrote in the moment when he thought he would never have to face her again, when he thought it was the last things she'd ever have from him would still be where she could find it even after he realized he _would_ have to face her if she read it. If she picked up on whatever he was trying to say.

And still, he left it there.

As if he wanted her to find it even knowing he wasn't going anywhere for a while yet.

As if he wanted her to know how he felt about her presence in his life and how he understood her and how he appreciated her and how he might even have missed her.

But, considering this _was_ Mason it was entirely possible he had simply forgotten about having written it at all.

Georgia's face scrounged up in a frown and she clutched the folded pages in her fist.

That bastard.

_xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx_

**Note:**

(1) This is the name I found for the character who takes George's soul and whom she replaces. I know they mention it in the pilot episode, but I don't have the patience to sit through it so I found it on If anyone knows the name they use is different, please let me know.

(2) I made up this name for him because I couldn't find information on whether or not Mason is his first or last name and what the other might be.

**A/N:** So, obviously, this is dealing with the episode, "Last Call" and the aftermath. Kind of like a missing scene, like what Mason might have done after he talked to Daisy but before he found out it was a false alarm.


	3. jolt

**A/N:** Theme 03 for **_30Kisses_** from lj. I got the idea of this one and thought it worked well for the theme, but I am afraid I copped out on the 'kiss' restriction and did what I hoped I would never have to do – used a metaphorical kiss rather than a real one. Sorry, kids, an actual kiss just didn't work for this one.

**Disclaimer:** I disclaim all ownership to the characters of George Lass or Mason from this series. I recognize they belong to MGM/Showtime or whoever else owns the rights now. I also inform any interested party that I made no money in the creation or posting of this story.

_**This Kiss  
**__**03: jolt  
**__**Some People  
**__**by Em**_

_"What did my hands do before they held you?"  
_- Sylvia Plath

There are some people you meet and you just _know_ they're going to change your life forever. From that first contact, that first glimpse, even if it's from halfway across the room and you never physically touch. You could feel it like an electrical current humming somewhere inside you can't touch and can't name.

Mason wasn't one of those people.

At least, not for Georgia Lass.

But then again, maybe that was because the first time she met him, she had only been dead for a day and was still somewhat in shock of a different sort.

She knew she had thought him attractive from the get-go (She was dead, not stupid) but she hadn't thought anything besides a primal, _bad boy: yum'_ which of course translated into a mental sigh of _'Mason, Mason, Mason.'_

Again: dead. Day one. And a Reaper, besides. She definitely had enough stuff on her plate to wonder about without focusing on whether or not there was any electrical hum or inner knowledge that Mason would tilt her world on its axis.

In retrospect, she couldn't even remember if they touched at all that first day or even how long it had been before the first time she felt his hand. There was very little casual touching amongst the Reapers (except for Rube's meant-to-be-comforting hand on shoulder bit)

And the fact he always wore those fingerless gloves might be one reason.

That she was completely selfish and self-absorbed those first few months was definitely another possibility (okay, so a likely possibility, even).

But the day she let him stay in the house he had given to Daisy and her despite Daisy's adamance that he _not_ stay, it was just the two of them on the couch, they were (perhaps both) feeling vulnerable, and she was very aware of him then. Not for any reason more than the deep seated need to protect which had sprung up in Georgia's character out of somewhere previously unexplored. He was in trouble, he was scared, and she wanted to protect him. The way she was learning she wanted to protect others.

But however innocent the moment had started out being, as he admitted to being afraid of the dark and she had seen the truth of it in his eyes, he had casually touched her arm (her right) and started playing with the folds of her sleeve, as if he were half-heartedly trying to get at the skin underneath. Without thought, really, too involved in the realization of his _words_ she didn't realize that she (almost automatically) reached for his hand, meeting her fingers with his, twisting them together. _That_ was when she felt it. The moment his fingers wrapped up in hers, she felt the electricity shock her system – but not like a distant or persistent hum at all. No, this was a jolt—a live current that made it very difficult to keep her face neutral and unaffected.

_Wham!_

Right into her spine, running all the way up into her cerebral cortex (wherever _that _was – she wasn't a fucking Biology Person). Like a direct connection between where their fingers kissed and that previously mentioned obscure spot.

Almost immediately, the current settled into a soft hum of the kind that bothered her for a moment or two whenever he was near, but settled into something she could ignore like white noise (even if it never really went away) the more time she spent with him. But that first day...that first _real_ touch...

It smacked her neat little self contained selfish world _all_ out of whack.

She wasn't stupid. She could put two and two together, and even draw inferences and make logical leaps from a series of events and facts, when the situation called for it. So, considering that the last time her life was changed by a touch (when her predecessor touched her to take her soul, leaving her to carry on in his place) and the fact that the slight buzz she'd felt then had nowhere near the kind of juice Mason's touch had, she could only come to one logical conclusion:

Mason was going to change her life.

She didn't know how, or when, or hell, even why, but if intensity of the jolt was any indication, it would be big. Huge. Fucking Ginormous (capitalization _definitely _warranted).

The realization left her, quite understandably, with the keenest _'oh, shit'_ feeling she'd had since the moment she looked up and saw a ball of fire zooming in on her exact location. And seeing as how _'Surprise! You're dead and a reaper!_' was a pretty tough act to follow as far as dramatic changes were considered, and even though she had just sworn that she wasn't scared of anything, she had no choice but to admit (at least to herself) that she was scared.

Very, very, scared.

_xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx_

**Notes:** References to episodes: **_Pilot_** (Season 1) and **_Always_** (Season 2)


	4. our distance and that person

**A/N:** Theme 04 for 30Kisses from lj. Wow. It's been so long since I updated this -- frankly, I wasn't sure I was going to. I wanted to, don't get me wrong, but I think I lost the spark of inspiration for this series, when they stopped playing the episodes. I had started this theme back when...but I honestly sort of forgot about it. THEN, I was transferring files to my new laptop and started reading it and got inspired to finish it. What do you think?

P.S. This has not been beta read -- not even, really, by me.

**Disclaimer:** I disclaim all ownership to the characters of George Lass or Mason from this series. I recognize they belong to MGM/Showtime or whoever else owns the rights now. I also inform any interested party that I made no money in the creation or posting of this story.

_**This Kiss  
04: Our Distance and That Person  
Duck and Cover  
by Em**_

_"Dig if you will, a picture / of you and I engaged in a kiss..."_  
- When Doves Cry, Prince

There were any number of places I would've preferred to be than Middle-Of-Fucking-Nowhere, Washington (aka Snoqualmie -- pronounced _snow-kal-mee_ -- Pass, population 201. Soon to be 198, in about fifty three minutes).

The dentist.

A ledge.

The laundromat.

It wasn't, exactly, that I minded the quiet of the hole in the wall town (seriously: blink and the next thing you know, it's a small little dot in your rear view mirror as you zoom down the I-90 East. We should know.). I didn't really mind the quiet.

It's just that when Rube came into Der Waffle Haus and asked me if I was up for a trip, this was the last place I thought I'd end up.

Ok, sure, unless I was psychic (which I'm obviously not) it was technically impossible for me to have thought of Snoqualmie under any circumstances, and not just because it's hardly the kind of place that would stick to your memories. But with a name like _Snow_-qualmie one might be inclined to think, if one thought about it at all, as a wintering spot.

And it wasn't winter.

It wasn't even fucking close.

It was hot, to say the least.

But even _that_ wouldn't have been so bad in the long run.

A trip to the mountains? Nice, leisurely drive, 70 miles away from Seattle, not too bad, leave early to make sure you get there, and barring any unforseen circumstances, get to the town a good hour or so before the reap time, just to have enough time to locate all three people, since because none of them had the same last name, it couldn't be a family.

Then Rube had told me who was going with me.

"Georgia, you're pouting."

Even Roxie would've been better than Daisy.

"If you continue to pout, you'll get wrinkles."

And Roxie always fell asleep in the car and _snored_ when she did.

"You should really take care of your skin more, you know..."

"I'm _undead_, Daisy," I finally snap out of my silence. "I could pout until Kingdom Come, _literally_, and I _still_ wouldn't get wrinkles!"

"Well, that has not been proven as of yet--"

"We _don't_ age, you know that, so how the hell could we possibly get wrinkles?" I demanded.

Daisy frowned prettily. "Well, you're in an awful temper today, aren't you?" she decided, as she always did when she was wrong and couldn't convince you otherwise, to change the subject.

"Yes," I confirmed. "Yes, I am."

"And why is that, on such a beautiful day?" Daisy asked in her happy-chirpy voice.

"One, I had to get up at the ass-crack of dawn. Two, I had to drive to Snow-no-real-snow-qualmie. Three, I have to put up with you," I ticked off on my fingers. "I think that's more than enough reason to be pissy."

"You forgot four," Daisy said casually picking at non-existent cuticle of her right index finger.

"Oh?" I asked, raising a brow. "You have a thought on why I'd be pissy?" The sarcasm was just dripping from my voice, and trust me, my voice wasn't normally that far away from sarcasm to begin with. "Please enlighten me."

She laughed, and the sound was like the tinkling of bells -- or, at least she'd say it was.

"Four," she said in a rather bad imitation of my annoyed tone. "Because a certain someone with a British accent was left back in Seattle."

The smug tone of her voice made me want to smack her. I didn't, of course. It wouldn't do much except make her pissy. I could, of course, have pretended not to know who she was talking about, even though there was only one "certain someone" we knew with a British accent. I could've made it difficult for her, but the last thing I wanted to do 20 miles west of Snoqualmie, Washington was to argue with Daisy Adair for twenty miles. "You're right," I admitted instead. "Mason should have gotten _his_ lazy ass up out of bed and come down here instead of me," I added. "He loves all this traveling shit." I kept my eyes steady on the nearly barren road ahead of me. "Meanwhile, I just love my bed."

Daisy was not deterred, fuck it all. "I'm sure he's missing you just as much as you're missing him, Georgia," she said in that superior tone of voice my mother used when she reminded me that I knew I couldn't just keep ignoring my little sister because after all, '_she is your sister._' As if I should know.

"Why the hell would I care if Mason is missing me?" I asked, fighting to keep the note of defensiveness from my voice.

"So you don't deny that he would be?" Daisy asked.

"I never said that," I replied.

"Yes you did," she insisted.

I rolled my eyes and sighed loudly. "Alright, forgive me Ms. Grammarian," I allowed. "Forgive me for assuming you can make a leap in logic without my spelling it out." I scoffed. "What I _should_ have said is that there is no reason for Mason to be missing me," I glanced sideways at her, "or for me to miss him," I assured her. "And even if there was, which there isn't," another sideways glance couldn't help but profess the extent of my feelings on having to make something as obvious as _that_ clear, "why in hell would I care?"

"Oh, come Georgia!" again that laugh she must have practiced for long hours in front of a mirror back when she was a young thing in Hollywood trying to make a name for herself. "You don't have to hide from me, sugar."

I barely resisted stopping the car and kicking her out. Anything to stop the words that were about to come out of Daisy's mouth--anytime she lapsed into her thick as molasses southern drawl, I knew it was nothing but trouble coming at me. I couldn't think of anything to say that would get me out of it, however, so I hunkered down in the bucket leather seats of the 'Stang and gripped the wheel. "Now you're just talking shit, just because, aren't you?" Well...I _had_ to try, didn't I?

"Georgia," she said meaningfully. "I _saw_ you."

I went still. I don't think I even breathed. If a cherry red semi with Elton John set up on the flat bed singing _Piano Man _would've materialized out of nowhere right in front of me, I still wouldn't have been able to swerve. And of course, the only thought that floated through my brain was, _oh, shit._

When? What did she see?

She laughed, and I knew I hadn't managed to keep the shock off my face as efficiently as I'd hoped.

"I don't know what you think you saw, Daisy--"

It was a valiant effort on my part, if I do say so myself, but alas...to no avail.

"I saw you two," she said and at my disbelieving look, she exhaled and explained. "Behind the door to Der Waffle Haus," she said, smirking like the world was her fucking oyster. "And whew, was that some make out session, Georgia!" she intoned. "I must say, you really are making up for lost time, aren't you?"

I thought, once again, about denying it. After all, back when we decided to keep whatever this was between us quiet, it had seemed like a good idea. I even thought of excuses like there was something in my eye, or we were conducting an experiment to see if Dentyne Ice really did make you feel chill all over when you kissed, but in the end, it didn't matter.

That didn't mean I was going to allow Daisy to imply I was in any way, shape, or form pining for him like a love sick fool or anything. Just 'cause the man knew how to kiss (and with 60 plus years experience, _who wouldn't?)_ didn't mean I needed him around like Linus needs his blankie.

And I certainly wasn't about let Daisy think otherwise.

"So?" I asked nonchalantly. "You haven't explained why you think his being in Seattle makes for a good reason why I'd be pissy to be going to Bumble-Fuck."

I didn't even make it a question, and although I could feel Daisy's eyes on my from her side of the car, she didn't seem inclined to answer.

She only had another 8 miles to think of something.

_Fuck_.


	5. Ano, sa

**A/N:** Theme 05 for 30Kisses from lj (which, I have been dropped from the claim...but that's all well and good, since I wasn't doing one every month anyway and probably wouldn't). Well! Surprise, surprise! This one was ready way before the last one was, huh? I don't know; don't look at me. I don't get it either. This is, er...kinda random.

Again, not beta-read.

**Disclaimer:** I disclaim all ownership to the characters of George Lass or Mason from this series. I recognize they belong to MGM/Showtime or whoever else owns the rights now. I also inform any interested party that I made no money in the creation or posting of this story.

**_This Kiss__  
05: "ano sa..." ("hey, you know...")  
Puzzling  
by Em_**

_"There is nothing worse than a brilliant image of a fuzzy concept."_  
- Ansel Adams

"Hey..."

"Hm?" she replied, most of her attention on an eight letter synonym for _bugle call_.

"You know..."

"Yeah?" she prodded. He had trailed off for about a minute and she'd given up on 12 across and moved on to a five letter word for _boorish_ by the time she realized he hadn't completed his sentence. She wrote in "crude" and looked up at him only to find him fiddling with the loose thread of the sofa cushion covers. She waited.

"Well..." he tried a different track, but he couldn't finish this one any easier than the previous one.

"Mason," she sighed. He looked up at her, almost surprised to find her looking at him. She frowned. "Are you even talking to me or are you talking to the imaginary friend that lives in your belly lint again?"

He grinned, and she recognized it absently as one of his self-defense grins, not the true ones. "I nearly had them fooled with that belly button lint person, though, didn't I, Georgie-girl?"

She rolled her eyes and bent back to her crossword puzzle. He'd tell her what he wanted to tell her when it suited him. She wasn't about to prod him to come out with it.

She felt his presence as he leaned into her space, shoulder bumping against hers and pressing there as he looked at the folded up newspaper in her hand. He pointed to 12 across and said, "Reveille."

She re-read the clue and exhaled. _'Of course it was reveille.'_ Without looking at him, she filled in the letters in the tiny boxes, and did her utmost not to lean away or to otherwise show how uncomfortable she was with anyone touching her. (It was something she was working on).

He laughed suddenly and pointed to 45 down. She read the clue, _a couple of shillings_ and knew there was no way that she could figure that one out.

"It's two bob," he spoke.

She looked up at him incredulously. "Two _bob_?"

He nodded, grinning. "Twobob," and with his accent it came out as if it were all one word.

"As in _bob's your uncle_?" she pressed.

"Yeah," he confirmed. "Right."

She looked back at the puzzle and counted spaces. _'Yep...it'll fit,'_ she admitted to herself. With a shrug, she entered the letters.

"And that one's 'oop,'" he added, pointing to 15 down.

She pulled the paper away from his eyes and glared up at him. "Jeeze, Mason," she exclaimed. "If you want to do a crossword, go find your own," she snapped.

He blinked at her, then grinned. "Hey, it's not my fault if you're shit at crosswords, is it?" he asked

She narrowed her eyes dangerously -- the kind of narrowed-eyed stare that usually preceded some form of sudden and difficult to predict and yet amazingly painful spot of violence.

He figured he'd best try to defend himself before it escalated. "I was only trying to help."

"I don't need your help," she enunciated clearly.

He grinned again. "I think you do," he countered. "You'd only done three bits before I came along."

She slapped the folded up newspaper across his forearm and retreated it so quickly, all that alerted him that he'd been hit was the echo of the thwack the paper'd made against his skin.

"Oi, Georgie!" he exclaimed, rubbing at his arm. "There's no call for violence!"

"I was just sitting here, minding my own business," she mumbled to herself instead of answering him, turning her eyes back to the paper. "doing a crossword, but would he leave me alone? No...of course not..." she continued to mumble, filling in _Jemima_ in the boxes for 18 across, _Beatrix Potter's Paddle-Duck_. Reggie always had loved Beatrix Potter. She was biting the pencap on her ballpoint, counting whether there were enough boxes in 60 across to spell out _allot_ as the answer to _assign_ when he spoke again.

"Hey, you know...Georgie..."

She rolled her eyes and waited for a few moments, her eyes on the paper but not reading. Several moments later, when he didn't deign to fill in that conversation starter with any further comment, she sighed and glanced at him, "Are we back on this again?" before going back to carefully filling in boxes, checking to see if it revealed anything about 61 down, _Jacob's first wife_ that she didn't already know. _'What was with crossword puzzles and bible stories, anyway?'_ she wondered absently.

"Well, you didn't let me tell you anything the last time," he countered.

She looked at him, aghast. "_I_ didn't?"

"No," he insisted, his voice still pitched about an octave higher than normal to show his indignation. "You went on and on about your bloody crossword."

She felt it as her eyebrows raised up high into her hairline. She was about to argue with him when she remembered who she was talking to and shook her head. "Whatever," she decided, looking back at her crossword. "Just say whatever you need to say Mason," she told him, suddenly _getting_ what _big benefit_ was and printing "Gala" in neat block letters in 1 across. She smirked as that little epiphany made 1 down easy as pie to figure out.

"That's _got_," Mason pointed out, reaching over her shoulder to tap 1 down.

She glared up at him. "I _know_ it's _got_, Mason," she clipped. "Who wouldn't know that a three letter word for _understood, as in punch line_ that starts with _g_ could be anything but _got_?"

_Why did she let him get to her so thoroughly?_ she wondered.

"What the hell's gotten into your nickers and died, eh?" he asked. "I'm just trying to help."

George closed her eyes, forced her hand to unclench around the pen, took a deep breath, and let it out slowly. Then, she counted to ten. Only then did she turn to face him. "And I told you that I don't want your help," she said, her voice calm and (at least momentarily) lacking in sarcasm or bite. She exhaled again and tried to explain. "If someone keeps telling me the answers, then I'll never improve my vocabulary," she said in what she was proud to note was still a calm and collected tone of voice.

"What?" he asked, brow raised and look of pure confusion on his features. "Well, you'll never improve your vocabulary if you don't practice," he said as if it were a foregone conclusion.

George just barely resisted the urge to brain him with the nearest heavy object (in this case, the vase of flowers Daisy insisted on setting on the coffee table in the precise spot that always blocked the tv) and exhales. "Thank you," she said instead. (Trying to argue less, that was also something she was working on for self-improvement purposes). She glanced at him and thought she kept the murderous intent from her expression quite nicely. "I'll get right to that, then," she added, pointing back to her crossword on her lap with her pen.

He didn't get up off the couch and he didn't start busying himself with something else, but he wasn't speaking, so George accepted what she could get and searched out another easy clue on the puzzle. No sooner had the pencap gone back between her teeth and she was trying to reason out what musical "Blank Blank, Kate" could be that would work out to six letters and fit in 25 across, starting with a 'k' and ending with an 'e' that Mason spoke again.

"So, do you want to?" he asked.

George blinked up at him in utter confusion. "Do I want to what?"

"Go with me," he said, making the type of motions with his hands which she might understand if only she were only slightly more fluent in MasonGestures.

"Go with you?" she echoed, still trying to figure out if she really had succeeded in tuning him out. "Where?" she asked, brows furrowed.

"To where?" he laughed. "Haven't you been listening, darling?" he asked. When her furrowed brow began to narrow inward, he could practically hear her patience straining at the bit. "Or, maybe I didn't get to that part yet," he corrected himself. "There's a showing of _A Hard Days Night_ at the Woodland Park Rose Garden on Saturday," he explained. He looked down at the puzzle on her lap. As if finding some answer there, when he looked up at her, he was grinning in what she knew he thought of as his 'winning smile.' "Come along?" he asked.

She frowned, more from the effort of figuring him out than out of any statement on her feelings for the particular outing. Of all the things she could guess Mason would be interested in doing, going to a park for any reason at all would never be on her list -- let alone going to the park for the showing of a Beatles movie. (Okay...the watching of a Beatles movie she could maybe harmonize, but in a park?)

She started to ask, _'Why would you think to ask me to come to this?_ but got no further than the "Why--?" before he interrupted her.

"Kiss me," he said.

She looked up at him, eyes wide with momentary shock, wondering if he had finally gone off the deep end. "What the--?" she started, when, grinning, he pointed down at the clue she had just been looking at.

"Kiss me, Kate!" he announced. "It's a Cole Porter musical, they even made a movie musical out of it in the 60s or 50s," he scratched the back of his head. "A bit before my time, but it had a revival on Broadway some years back, I think." When she still looked at him as if in shock, he maintained his smile. "See? K-I-S-S-M-E," he counted out on his fingers. "Six letters, it fits."

She closed her eyes and let her head fall back on the couch, using her free hand to rub at her temple. _'Why was it that every conversation with Mason left her feeling like she'd just spent the last hour trying to run a marathon without being able to get off a treadmill?'_

"Hey, Georgie..." he asked. She felt the couch shift as he leaned over to look at her face. "So will you go?"

_'And purposefully subject herself to this for theoretically hours?'_

"Yeah, sure, whatever," she mumbled.

And although she only glanced at the puzzle in defeat, she suddenly got _four letter word for yield, as in property_ and wrote in 'cede' with a fair bit of irony, thinking that the next time Rube suggested she take up a hobby, she'd ignore him.

xxxxxx

**A/N:** Yes...yes, I know. I realize that I pulled another fast one (or tried to) with the actual kiss part of the kiss theme...I don't know why I just can't seem to get these two to kiss! But maybe in the next one?

So, what do you guys think?


	6. the space between dream and reality

**A/N:** So, I'm officially no longer posting these up on 30kisses, since I was dropped from the claim. Another mostly random one. ::shrug::

p.s. This is sort of short, now that I re-read it...but it really does have to end here. There isn't much else to say.

**Disclaimer:** Not mine. Yada-yada.

_**This Kiss  
06: the space between dream and reality  
Perchance to Dream  
by Em**_

"_To sleep: perchance to dream: ay, there's the rub: / For in that sleep of death what dreams may come?"_  
- William Shakespeare, Hamlet

Georgia had always had weird dreams.

It was part of who she was.

Of course, they had never been as weird as they became after she died…or, became undead actually. Yes, siree, after a de-orbiting space toilet whacked her at the ripe old age of 19, her dreams took a turn toward the decidedly _odd_.

The one about the frog being one notable example, of course.

Those were the kinds of dreams where she had the feeling they must mean _something_ more than the obvious and if she happened to be the type (or have the money, in any case) she might have gone to a whatchamacallit – dream analyst head shrinker – to help figure it out.

Then…

Well, then there were the just plain loopy ones.

She didn't always remember those by the time she'd washed her face and brushed her teeth, but she always remembered waking up and wondering, 'what the _fuck_ was all that about?'

There was the time she dreamt she was cleaning out a big honking tuba and it started playing by itself…

Or, the time she dreamt she was dressed like Minnie Mouse serving up fries at the Shake & Bake.

And, oh yeah...that one dream with the silo thing that spun like a centrifuge and spit out spikes and made zombies of everyone the spikes hit.

Weird shit, dreams.

Still…waking up after having dreamt that she was hanging off the top of a very tall building only to look up and find Mason reaching down to save her, pulling her up into his arms and kissing her stupid after he did had to take the cake.

Had to.

Mason is _so_ not the hero type.

And fuck…it wasn't like Georgia Lass has ever been the Damsel In Distress type, either.

Who the fuck would be hanging from a tall building anyway?

Was this some sort of Superman Cartoon, or what?

And…Mason? _Mason_?

_Really_?

Hearing her name, George looked up and started a bit to see Mason standing a few steps above her.

"Come along then, sweetheart," he called down to her. "We haven't got all day, you know?"

_Totally_ not hero material, that one.

"Aw," Mason teased as she deliberately slowed her pace just to be contrary. "Having trouble coming up a measly 18 flights of steps?"

Georgia didn't reply, only kept climbing.

"Here," Mason said in a much more normal voice. Georgia looked up at him again and almost missed a step. He was leaning over a little, hand extended, an earnest look in his eyes. "Let me help pull you up, yeah?"

Georgia stopped moving and merely stared for a moment.

"What?" Mason asked, defensive, probably because she was looking at him as if a the Roaming Gnome had just jumped out of his right nostril.

Mentally shaking herself, Georgia glared at him. "Are you sure your puny arms can take the strain?"

Mason grinned. "I'm a lot stronger than I look, love," he boasted. "Plus, we'll never get to the Reap in time if you keep dawdling like you're doing."

Georgia continued to glare and stepped determinately onto the same step he was on, slapping his hand away when he still held it out to her. "Fuck off, Mason," she said, staring right into his eyes. "I'm no fucking damsel in distress," she said, turning and continuing to climb the steps.

"Wouldn't say that you were," he agreed, good naturedly. He took a few steps in double time so when she looked up at him again, he was standing above her again and grinned. "Just that you're a slow one, that's all."

Georgia shook her head as she continued to climb stairs. "I don't know what the hell upper you've taken, but if you don't get it under control, like yesterday, I swear on my unholy soul I will cut off your head while you sleep."

Mason watched as she stepped beyond the stair he was still on and followed her ascent with his eyes for a few moments before speaking. "I suppose I can climb these steps behind you," he mused. "The view is definitely a whole hell of a lot better, that's for bloody sure."

Georgia sighed and shook her head again, thinking, 'Weird ass dreams…' as she climbed.

_xxxxx_

**A/N:** Is it just me, or is there an issue with tense in this bit? I can't tell and I think I'm too tired to find it.

So...whaddya think?


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